Biofire, page 11
A few frustrated, sputtering sounds came over the speaker, then: “What the fuck are you talking about, Shaw?”
There was a muted beep and Shaw’s secretary, Carmen, spoke over the intercom. “Dr. Jorgan is waiting to see you, Mr. Shaw.”
He leaned forward, hit a button on the intercom, and said, “Tell him to wait.” He leaned back, relaxed, and continued. “I carefully research every company, every person I deal with, Maxwell, and you and your company are no exception. I’ve learned a lot about your father and grandfather. They were good men. Family men. Respectable. Admirable. They worked hard and earned their success. But at the same time, they kept their families at the top of their lists of priorities. From what I can tell, they were more faithful to their wives than most, and they adored their children. But you, Maxwell…I don’t think you’re cut from the same cloth as those men. In all the research my people did, there was no evidence that your father or grandfather had a taste for young boys. Unlike you, Maxwell.”
A brief gagging sound on the other end of the line was followed by silence.
“I don’t think your father and grandfather would approve of your habit of ignoring your family to seek out smooth-skinned teenage boys with whom to perform ugly, nasty acts. Of course, they’re dead. Your father and grandfather, I mean.” He paused to draw on the cigar again, savoring its flavor as well as the thick silence that continued on the speaker. “But your wife and children are not dead. I’m sure they would be horrified to learn the truth about you. I’m quite certain your stockholders would, too. To say nothing of the law, which tends to frown on such relations between adults and minors. Even borderline minors. You wouldn’t want any of that to happen. Would you, Maxwell?”
He waited, rolling the cigar slowly between thumb and forefinger. It took a long time, but the response finally came. It was spoken in a hoarse whisper, with the slightest hint of sniffles and tears mixed in.
“You son…of a bitch.” Then, after a deep breath: “I could…I could be recording this conversation, Shaw.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Shaw said, glancing again at the still-dead light. “I know you’re not recording anything. It’s illegal without permission in this state, anyway, and would only get you into trouble. Do you think I’m stupid, Maxwell?”
Silence.
“Now,” Shaw continued, speaking casually, “there’s always the chance that you don’t care if anyone finds out about your, uh…behavior. That would be unwise, but I’ve considered the possibility, and I’ve come up with another way of convincing you to maintain your business relationship with OdysseyCorp. Considering your other activities, you seem to have no use for your family. So, if we can’t come to an understanding about this, I’ll have your family killed. Depending on my mood, I might even have it done in such a way as to suggest that you are the killer. That might cramp your style with the boys, don’t you think? Of course, you’d have plenty of company in prison, but I’m not sure those fellows would be up to your standards.”
Shaw waited again, but no response came. Nothing more than a quiet, strangled sob.
“If all else fails, Maxwell, I may decide to have you killed so that your company can carry on without you in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed. After all, that’s the only thing I’m concerned about, really. Your company. You’re unnecessary. Besides, I’ve really hit it off with your stockholders. I think they like me. So…why don’t you think on these things a while. In the meantime, I expect the next order to arrive punctually, as usual. If you have any questions, you can always call me. Have a nice day, Maxwell.”
Shaw leaned forward and severed the connection with the push of a button. Then he hit the intercom and said, “Send Jorgan in, Carmen.”
A moment later, Dr. Alan Jorgan shuffled into the office.
He was short, about five six, and was shaped like a pear. Atop his round head were just a few rust-colored tufts, surrounded by a wreath of thick hair that grew past his collar and looked like it had never been combed or brushed. His forehead was creased even when he was not frowning, and it was always covered with a thin, glistening sheen of perspiration. His beak of a nose hooked over a poorly trimmed mustache, and the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses were smudged and so thick that they magnified the puffy half-moons of flesh beneath his eyes.
He wore a gray sport coat over a plain white shirt that sported a couple of food stains and was buttoned all the way up to his fleshy throat. His baggy, black Dockers bunched up around his raggedy black sneakers, one of which was untied.
Jorgan closed the door behind him and went straight to the chair in front of Shaw’s desk. As always, he turned the chair slightly to his right, leaned his left elbow on the armrest and faced Shaw with his chin on his fist, right ankle resting on his left knee, foot dangling.
“So, Alan,” Shaw said, “to what do I owe this visit.”
“Well, things aren’t turning out quite as we’d expected, Mr. Shaw.”
“Ah. Well, I’m not entirely surprised, but I’m not worried, either. It’s been my experience that nothing ever goes quite as planned. That’s why I like to remain flexible.”
As Shaw spoke, Jorgan’s eyes wandered to a bank of shelves, one shelf in particular. On that shelf, in an antique gold frame, stood an eight-by-ten portrait of Emma.
Jorgan gazed at the photograph every time he came into the office. It was quite obvious that Alan Jorgan was enamored of Emma’s face. It was, indeed, a lovely face. The picture had been taken shortly before they had married and Shaw could not remember ever seeing her look more beautiful, more glowing. Jorgan contemplated the photograph wistfully—at least, as wistful as Jorgan ever got—each time he entered the office. Shaw remembered inviting Jorgan to the house for a dinner party and watching him gawk shamelessly at Emma, following her around the house at a distance as if his heart would stop beating if he lost sight of her. Shaw took it as a compliment. That was, after all, the primary reason he had married Emma.
If only Jorgan knew the truth. If only he knew what Emma had tried to do to Shaw.
Pulling his eyes away from the picture, Jorgan said, “Project Biofire is not moving along as quickly as we’d hoped. We’ve made a lot of progress, but not enough to satisfy the…the, uh, client.”
“You can speak freely in here, Alan. You know this office is safe.”
Jorgan nodded and cleared his throat. “The Pentagon is getting impatient. The progress we’ve made is enough for us to know that the project is a viable one. The desired result is very likely, in fact. Everything is ready and waiting. Even the synthetic virus was completed over a month ago. But we need human subjects. At least one. There’s no way around it.” He looked down at his lap, as if he were ashamed. He was not. He was simply searching for the right words so none would be wasted. “The Pentagon is unwilling to arrange for…well, the necessary accoutrements,” he said, giving a perfect French pronunciation of the last word. “They’re feeling a little skittish these days, what with the recent change of hands in Washington and the opposing viewpoints of the new administration. They’re not about to give us the same cooperation they gave us with the subway project. In spite of that, they want OdysseyCorp to produce.” He took in a deep breath and his belly rose, then he let the air out slowly through pursed lips. “I’m afraid this project will die if we can’t come up with at least one subject. On our own. Otherwise, they’ll pull the money. They’re giving us a week. I thought I should talk to you. How would you like me to proceed?”
Shaw nodded slowly. “Well, we can’t let this one go. It’s too big.” He held the cigar between his teeth a moment, running his tongue around the tip, puffing gently. “Normally, I’d suggest we go to Terrance at the prison, use somebody on Death Row. But ever since he got sacked we haven’t gotten too far with his successor. What about getting someone from down under?”
Many of the subjects used in projects at OdysseyCorp came from beneath the city, where homeless people huddled in the dark. Most were mentally ill, addicted to drugs, or near death from exposure, but they could be used in most projects. It originally had been Shaw’s idea to get subjects from down there. He had gone down alone a few times, even when a subject was not needed. Just for sport.
Jorgan shook his head. “We need someone in good health. Good health is pretty scarce down there.”
Carmen’s voice came over the intercom. “The car is here to take you to your meeting with the vice president.”
He hit the button and said, “I’ll be right out.”
Jorgan’s eyes had returned to the picture of Emma.
“Tell you what, Alan. I’m going to think about this. I’ll be in touch with you by this evening. Is that all right with you?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
Shaw put his cigar out in the marble bowl of an ashtray on his desk, then stood. Jorgan stood with him. They shook hands over the desk.
“Try to come up with something yourself,” Shaw said. “I have a lot of faith in you.”
Jorgan nodded but did not smile. He never smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Then he turned and left the office, pulling the door closed behind him.
Shaw turned and walked around the desk to get his coat and meet his car, when his eyes caught the portrait of his wife on the shelf. His eyes narrowed as thoughts began to churn in his head, to boil and stew. He ran the tip of his tongue slowly over his lower lip, back and forth, as he stared at the picture.
Then Shaw spun around and punched the intercom button.
“Carmen, get Dr. Jorgan back in here immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the door opened again.
“Alan, don’t worry. I have your subject.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’ll call you tonight. Take care.”
Jorgan nodded and backed out of the office, pulling the door closed slowly.
Shaw whistled a tune as he put on his overcoat.
“Carmen, empty the ashtray,” he said as he left the office on his way to meet with the vice president of the United States.
7.
Life in Prison
* * *
Emma never realized before just how small a forty-three-room house could be, nor how fond she could become of a large lizard named Rupert.
“Bologna sandwiches, Rupert!” she called as she entered the greenhouse. “I made them myself.”
She could hear his tail swishing through the bushes, his claws clicking on the floor as he hurried toward the sound of her voice.
Pulling up the white plastic chair she had brought into the greenhouse weeks ago, she sat down and placed the tray on her lap. On the tray were four bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise, mustard, and American cheese on white bread, a plate of raw vegetables and a large bowl of potato chips. The chips were the plain kind, very thin. She had found that Rupert preferred them over others she had given him.
The enormous iguana appeared from the small jungle of greenery and shuffled toward her, smiling the whole way. Emma leaned down and held out a sandwich. Rupert plucked it from her hand and ate happily.
“And chips,” she said. “I’ve got your favorite kind.” She took a handful of potato chips from the bowl, leaned down, and dropped them in a pile before the iguana.
As soon as he was done with the sandwich, Rupert cocked his head and locked an eye on the small mound of chips. He poked his head forward and closed his mouth on a few of them with a loud crunch, paused a moment, then began opening and closing his mouth as he drew the chips in with his pink tongue. As he chewed, Rupert tilted his head this way and that, sometimes looking up at Emma.
Popping a chip into her mouth, Emma chewed as she watched the lizard. “If you pretend they’re Landon’s bones, that crunch sounds pretty good, doesn’t it, Rupert?”
He looked at her with his left eye as he crunched, smiling.
She used to hate the iguana. Not that she had anything against reptiles in general or lizards in particular. In fact, she had always admitted that Rupert was a beautifully colored animal and had a rather charming face that seemed to be forever smiling. She had hated it because it was part of Landon’s collection of possessions, part of the display he put on for everyone around him. His obscenely large and odd-looking house, his collection of vintage cars, his green iguana, which, at six feet, two inches, was the largest in captivity, and, of course, Emma herself, among so many other things. With the exception of his cars, he really cared for nothing. His possessions were only for show, to impress people, to give him something to talk about between business deals. He cared deeply for his business, of course, but that was not a possession. Landon’s business was his life.
Rupert was kept in a sprawling greenhouse attached to the rear of the house in which a small tropical forest had been created for his comfort. Someone on the groundskeeping staff took Rupert for a walk twice a day on a dog leash attached to a halter and fed him fruits, vegetables, and grub worms. The only time Landon saw the lizard was when he brought someone into the greenhouse to show him off.
That was why Emma had always hated Rupert. The iguana was a reflection of her, of what she was: a possession of Landon’s.
But over the past few months, Emma’s feelings toward the long, smiling, lazy-eyed, green and yellow reptile had changed. He had become a partner, a cell mate. Even a confidant. He had proven to her that she still had some feelings left, just when she had become convinced that they had been extinguished.
Emma’s father and grandfather had smoked cigars, and she had grown up with their aroma, had even come to find it comforting. But she had never smelled cigar smoke with the pungent odor of burning flesh.
Landon had pressed the burning end of his cigar to the bottoms of her feet, in the gently curved arch where the skin was smoothest, softest. Emma had no idea how long he had pressed that red ember against her skin, but it was long enough for the burns to throb steadily for days after, long enough for her to be unable to walk properly for weeks. Her feet were still sore and she walked slowly and with care, mostly on the balls of her feet.
For all the pain that came afterward, the night he had burned her had been the worst. After he left, she had screamed in agony, writhed on the bed, calling for help, until her voice became a raspy croak and her throat was raw. Though she had lost consciousness from the pain early on, once she regained consciousness it was days before she got any real sleep. The fire still burned in the bottoms of her feet, driving its pain up into her legs like red-hot spikes.
The next morning, Landon had come to her room with a man from the lab, just as he had said he would: a thin, short, balding man in a white lab coat whose name she was never told. The man went about the business of examining her feet as Landon watched, each of them behaving as if she were not there at all.
For the first few days, she’d had to crawl on hands and knees to get to the bathroom. She did not bother trying the bedroom door, assuming it was locked, but Mrs. Babcock did not use a key to get in when she brought Emma her meals and a snack if she wanted.
Mrs. Babcock was sidling up to fifty, widowed and childless, and looked like a woman who was never meant to have children. Thin, stringy, and shapeless, she never smiled; her face did not seem built for it. She had gone to work for Landon years before Emma had met him, and her loyalty to her boss was quiet, unspoken, but utterly complete.
When she had brought Emma’s breakfast in on a tray the morning after the burning and beating, she had said good morning, asked Emma if she needed anything else, then left. Each time she came in, she behaved as if nothing was wrong or out of the ordinary, as if the bandages on Emma’s feet did not exist, as if Emma’s face was not puffy from crying and lack of sleep. She was never in the room for more than a minute before going back to her work.
Emma had rejected the idea of pleading for help from Mrs. Babcock almost as soon as it had occurred to her. She knew Mrs. Babcock would do nothing to help her, she would only run to Landon and tell him that Emma had asked. That might result in more physical punishment.
She remained in her bedroom for a little over two weeks, watching TV, listening to the radio, and trying to ignore her pain. Her feet showed some quick improvement, though, more than she had expected. After a couple of weeks, she was able to stop crawling to the bathroom, as long as she walked only on her tiptoes. Even that was painful, but she was determined to get used to the pain because she wanted to be able to walk again as soon as possible.
The man from the lab came back every couple of days to change her bandages, examine the burns, and apply some kind of cream, always without Landon. He never spoke or made eye contact with her. His visits became less frequent as her burns improved, and then he stopped coming. It felt good for the first few days to be free of him. No lab guy. No Landon. Just Mrs. Babcock popping in and out now and then. But then it began to make Emma nervous.
What was Landon doing? Why had he not shown himself, come to gloat over her wounds? She remembered Landon making some threats of some kind the night he had taken The Towel to her, but she could not remember specifics; that night had become a blur of pain in her memory.
From that moment on—when she realized that, like a problem child in the next room, Landon was being too quiet—Emma was unable to feel comfortable, to relax, to lose herself in a movie on TV, or even in the pain in her feet, however diminished it might be. She knew he had something planned, or was in the process of planning it. Her discomfort became agitation, and then paranoia. Late in her third week of isolation in the bedroom, Emma realized she had to get out before her paranoia became abject fear and she was too afraid to leave the room.
That was when the lab guy returned and spoke to her for the first time.
“Let’s get you on your feet and see if you can walk.”
As her ability to walk improved, she found that she was free to leave the bedroom and roam the house. It was a big house, and once she was out of the bedroom, she began to relax again.
